


I Wanna Ruin Our Friendship

by imatrisarahtops



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Injury, M/M, Mixtape, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imatrisarahtops/pseuds/imatrisarahtops
Summary: No, instead it was easier for him to say he had no idea how the jacket had ended up in his suitcase, once he’d finally taken the time to unpack when he returned to Russia.  And that was exactly what he’d said when asked about it.Yuri 'accidentally' ends up with Otabek's hoodie in his possession after the GPF in Barcelona.  He intends to give it back (really, he does), but the topic never seems to come up in conversation.  And if he wears it a few times first, really that's just an accident too.(Not that Otabek minds in the least.)





	1. stealing your stuff now and then

**Author's Note:**

> All right. I'm jumping in head-first with a Yuri!!! On Ice fic. It's based off of a few things.
> 
> First, [this post](http://superspicy.tumblr.com/post/161260049472/you-think-that-green-highlight-didnt-bothered-me), regarding the jacket that Yuri is wearing in [a piece of art drawn on his birthday](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C5wu6hzVMAAfWX3.jpg:large) and how it looks just like the one Otabek is wearing in the WttM manga. Also thrown in there is the theory that Otabek gave him said jacket to wear on the beach in Barcelona. Even though I'm not as sure about that second one, I'm using it for the story.
> 
> Second, the song "Jenny" by the Studio Killers. I am completely obsessed with the song and it is way too perfect for Otayuri. So I took the idea and I ran with it. Chapter titles and quotes are from that song.
> 
> A few injuries, events, and occurrences that appear in this story are based off of reading about various pro skaters, including those that these characters are based off of. I don't know the ins and outs of skating, but I tried to research and then used things how I saw fit.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _"Jenny, darling, you're my best friend._
> 
> _I've been doing bad things that you don't know about,_
> 
> _Stealing your stuff now and then;_
> 
> _Nothing you'd miss but it means the world to me..."_
> 
> "Jenny" by the Studio Killers

Yuri wasn’t entirely sure how the hoodie had found its way into his possession.

If he stopped to think about it, he could make an educated guess.  He could only assume that it had happened at some point during the rehearsal that had lasted into the early hours of the morning as he completely created a new exhibition skate overnight at the Grand Prix Final.  He vaguely remembered the older boy handing it over to him after Yuri had tracked him down in the club in Barcelona, the name of which he couldn’t even recall.  Still, he’d been fairly certain that he’d stripped it off once they had returned to the rink to run over the new choreography with the song Otabek had picked.

But, if Yuri stopped to think about it, he was fairly certain it was something he’d consciously done, taking it with him back to his hotel room, even if it was done through an awful hazy mix of adrenaline and exhaustion.

Which was probably why Yuri  _didn’t_ stop and think about it.  That was a whole different matter he didn’t want to address, instead hiding it away in a distant part of his subconscious.

No, instead it was easier for him to say he had no idea how the jacket had ended up in his suitcase, once he’d finally taken the time to unpack when he returned to Russia.  And that was  _exactly_  what he’d said when asked about it.

For quite some time, the hoodie sat in Yuri’s room, strewn across a chair.  He’d intended, on several occasions, to mention his accidental acquisition of the hoodie to its original owner.  He had texted with Otabek frequently enough, usually brief conversations about how their training was going for their respective competitions.  At no point, however, did the older boy bring up the missing jacket, and similarly Yuri found himself forgetting to mention it when the two of them talked.

Eventually, he gave up, telling himself that he could always return it to Otabek at Worlds.  If the thought crossed his mind that he really wasn’t trying  _that hard_  to send the hoodie back to Kazakhstan, again it was something that he refused to dwell on.  Really, it was easy to convince himself that waiting until seeing Otabek in person in March would just save on postage.

Instead he left the hoodie on his chair and did his best not to think on it and any subtle implications it all had.

So when he snatched up the jacket, yanking it over his head and grabbing his bag and keys before making his way to Victor’s apartment for dinner, it was really because he hadn’t been thinking about it.  In his defense, the jacket had spent the better part of two months sitting in his bedroom; it was plain black, just like the hoodie he commonly wore with his other jackets.  The February air was a biting cold in St. Petersburg, and he definitely needed the layers; on top of it, he was in a rush to make it to his rinkmates' home before Yuuri finished cooking dinner.  It wasn’t until he stripped off his coat and scarf—tossing them over the back of the couch before dropping himself into a chair at the kitchen table, half-heartedly scrolling through his phone, and then Victor opening his big mouth—that he noticed anything at all. 

“Nice jacket!” he said, sitting across from the younger skater and nursing a cup of steaming green tea.  Yuri mumbled a disinterested  _‘thanks,_ ’ in response, not looking away from his phone.  “I don’t recognize it,” Victor said conversationally over the rim of his mug.  "Where is it from?”

At this, Yuri had glanced down, frowning slightly at Victor’s comment, wondering if the man was pulling his leg, when— _oh_.  Realization hit him, sharp and quick.   _Oh no…_

Yuri swallowed thickly.  “Kazakhstan, probably,” he mumbled, attention returning to his phone as he hoped his tone didn’t betray anything.

“Really?” Yuuri asked then, placing a bowl and chopsticks down in front of Yuri.  “I didn’t know you’ve been to Kazakhstan,” he said thoughtfully before settling himself in a chair next to Victor.

“He hasn’t,” Victor said, a smile of understanding tugging at the edges of his lips while anger and embarrassment flared up inside of Yuri.

Yuuri, however, only looked confused at this.  “Then—?”

Yuri huffed out a sigh of resignation, desperately hoping that it came off as annoyance instead as he plucked his chopsticks from the table.  “It isn’t mine,” he said shortly.  “It’s… ah… Otabek’s.”

"Otabek Altin?" Yuuri’s eyebrows raised comically as he looked from Yuri—who was staring moodily at his gyūdon as he stabbed at the beef, avoiding all eye contact, biting back the question of _what other Otabek he could possibly mean_ —to Victor—whose eyes were now sparkling with mirth, his mouth a teasing, open-mouthed smirk—as though he was missing vital information.  “Is there… something between you and Otabek?” Yuuri asked curiously.

“Oh yes,” Victor murmured at the same moment Yuri shouted, “ _No!_ ”

Yuri scowled at Victor.

“ _Definitely_ ,” the older man amended.

“Of course not,” Yuri snarled, glowering at Victor.  “And even if there  _was_ , it would be none of your business!”

Victor opened his mouth to respond, smile still playing at his lips, when Yuuri cut across him.  “You’re right,” he said, his tone firm.  Yuri gaped at him incredulously for a moment, and the Japanese skater glanced at a pouting Victor over the frames of his glasses.  “It  _isn’t_  our business.”

Victor’s face fell a little into an expression that bore the tacit “ _but Yuuri!_ ” in every inch of his features.  Yuri smirked triumphantly, taking a piece of beef between his chopsticks and victoriously shoving it into his mouth. Yuuri switched the conversation to the upcoming Four Continents instead, something that Yuri tuned out as he ate, considering the fact that the competition didn’t directly affect him.  He instead continued to eat in smug satisfaction, pleased that he’d managed to avoid the potentially embarrassing conversation with Victor.

And now, Victor was seemingly distracted by his fiancé’s talk of skating.  Yuri was fairly certain the Japanese skater had done it on purpose.  And between bites of rice, beef, and onion, he had to admit that maybe the pig wasn’t all  _that_  bad in situations like this.

An hour or so later, however, he wanted to retract that mental statement.

Yuri had settled himself deep in the cushions of the blue living room sofa, his socked feet on the matching ottoman and his knees bent in front of him.  He’d stuffed one of his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he was still wearing, the other hand clutching his phone against his legs, thumb flicking through his social media feed.  He could hear Yuuri and Victor puttering about the kitchen, washing dishes and cleaning up the remnants of dinner.  Yuri sighed tiredly, then inhaled slowly.

The scent that tickled his nose was unfamiliar, yet comforting, and the recognition of what it must be immediately flooded his mind.  He licked his lips, again refusing to think.  Instead, he lowered his chin, burrowing the bottom half of his face into the high collar of the jacket.  He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

“So does it smell like him, then?”

Yuri flailed in his seat, his phone clattering to the floor and his feet kicking the ottoman away as he desperately tried to simultaneously sit up straight and curl in on himself.  He pulled his knees to his chest defensively, toes digging into the front of the couch cushions.  He scowled at Yuuri who was standing at the other edge of the sofa, eyebrows raised, a knowing smile on his lips, and two mugs of hot liquid in his hands.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” Yuri snapped defensively, glaring menacingly at the older man.  Not so long ago, the very same expression had been enough leave Yuuri a trembling mess; at times like this, Yuri mourned that loss.

Yuuri shrugged as he sat beside the younger skater, handing him one of the mugs.  Yuri peered at the contents, happy to see that it wasn’t the green tea Yuuri had brought from Japan, but sbiten.  He took a long sip, reveling in the spicy sweetness that warmed him to the bone.  Then, he nearly choked when Yuuri commented, “You were sniffing it.”

Yuri spluttered slightly, coughing into the crook of his elbow before glaring at Yuuri once more.  “I was most definitely  _not_ … sniffing…”  He trailed off, taking another drink.  “ _Shut up_ , pig,” he mumbled into the rim of his mug.

“You should come along to Four Continents,” Yuuri suggested then with a gentle smile.

“What?” Yuri demanded, startled by the idea.  “Why?”

Yuuri shrugged his shoulders as he sipped his tea.  “To see Otabek?” he said.  “Seeing the real thing is better than a piece of clothing, isn’t it?”  Yuri hummed noncommittally, ducking his head slightly.  “Though I’m surprised he didn’t invite you himself, honestly.”

Yuri’s head snapped up at this.  “Huh?”

“He must just know you’re busy with practice,” Yuuri said thoughtfully. “I just thought since he gave you his jacket—"

“He didn’t!” Yuri quickly objected, planting his feet on the floor and turning his body to Yuuri.  "I don’t even know how it got in my bag after the Grand Prix!”

Yuuri blinked back at him.  “Oh,” he said blankly, furrowing his brow slightly.  “Then… he didn’t give it to you?”

“No!” the blond responded.

“But you’re wearing it?”

“Ah…”  Yuri suddenly realized the problem with his adamant denial of the subject, glancing back down at his cup, hands still wrapped tightly around it.  “I…”

Yuuri tilted his head to the side.  “Otabek doesn’t know you have feelings for him,” he said slowly.

“I don’t!” Yuri immediately argued, which he had to admit didn't help his case.  “He—I just…”  The Japanese skater raised a skeptical eyebrow at this.  “Ah,  _fuck._ ” He could feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame.

"It's okay!" Yuuri hastily assured him.

"Maybe until you tell your stupid husband about it," the younger skater grumbled into his drink.

"He's not my husband," Yuuri responded with the tiniest smile, and the heavily implied ' _yet_ ' was enough to make Yuri have to suppress the urge to gag. "Why would I tell him, anyway?"

Yuri raised a shoulder in a defeated shrug, sinking back into the couch cushions and letting his hair fall over his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to tell each other everything?"

Yuuri hummed thoughtfully at this. "Well, maybe if it involves us or our relationship," he said. "But this is about you. I'm not obligated to tell him anything, especially if you don't want me to."

Yuri eyed him warily from behind his hair. "I want you to take this to the _grave_ , pig," he said. "No telling Victor, or Mila, or any of your stupid friends—and definitely no mention of it to Otabek. You tell anyone and I'll kill you myself."

Yuuri smiled. "Then your secret is safe with me!"  Yuri grunted in response, draining the last of his sbiten. "Though, you know, you could just tell Otabek yourself."

Again, Yuri struggled to keep himself from choking on his drink. He rounded on Yuuri, staring at him as though he'd clearly lost his mind. "Yeah," he said with a derisive snort. "I'm sure that would go over well."

"He's your friend, isn't he?"

" _Yeah_ ," Yuri repeated, dragging out the word in an almost patronizingly slow manner. "He's my _friend_." He kicked his feet out, crossing his ankles atop the ottoman. "I'd really rather keep it that way."

"I really doubt Otabek would stop wanting to be your friend—"

"We aren't discussing this," Yuri snapped, folding his arms over his chest, still clutching the empty mug. "Besides, you're one to talk, aren't you? With how long it took you to talk to the old man?"

Yuuri hummed in response at this. "I suppose you're right," he said in a considering tone, standing up once more. "But in the end, I did." He plucked the cup out of Yuri's hand, and the blond glanced up at him to see a wide grin spreading across his face. "And look where I am now."

Yuri blinked at the man in slight disbelief, still taken aback by the sudden bouts of confidence like this when they occurred. He watched as Yuuri took the mugs back to the kitchen; a moment later, he could again hear the distant voices of Yuuri and Victor chattering over the sounds of cleaning.

For a fleeting moment, he considered the possibility that Yuuri could be right. He considered the idea of potentially ruining the admittedly brief but inarguably cherished friendship he'd formed with Otabek.

But at the thought of things not working out, of the potential that it could all so easily go to hell... He shook his head, raising his shoulders and burrowing his nose into the collar of the hoodie once more.

Yuri again chose to stop thinking. 

* * *

If Otabek was completely honest with himself, he rather liked the idea of Yuri possessing some article of clothing that belonged to him.

It had taken weeks before he realized his hoodie was missing from his luggage when he returned to Almaty. In his defense, he'd immediately set out to train for Four Continents, where he planned on debuting a different free skate program. He'd hardly had a moment to rest, let alone to notice that his jacket wasn't in his suitcase. When he was donning practice clothes every day, it was only natural that he wouldn't even miss the hoodie until much later.

To be fair, he didn't even know for sure that Yuri had it at all. He reasoned it was quite likely that after the all-night skating practice, it had been left in the rink and was currently still in Barcelona, sitting in some lost and found, or else claimed by someone who didn't know the true owner of the jacket. But he liked the idea of Yuri having it—it was one of the reasons he lent it to the younger boy in the first place. So he chose to believe that it was currently in the blond skater's possession, mixed in with his own clothes from the moment he returned to Russia.

Still, the mere thought—which was just a mere _fantasy_ , really, though Otabek hated to admit it—had not prepared him for reality.

Reality being a photo that Yuri posted to his Instagram on the first day of March.

Otabek was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t spoken as much to Yuri over the last two weeks, after he’d been forced to withdraw from Four Continents as a result of injury.  He hadn’t had it in him to tell Yuri personally, feeling anger at himself alongside the pain in his knee—and then, the guilt only worsened when he found out that Yuri had attended the event as a spectator.  He knew the boy hadn’t gone to see him specifically—that was just a ridiculous hope on his part—but it still made something like regret twist in his stomach at the missed opportunity.

But Yuri didn’t seem to be mad when they talked at last, only showing concern that he was okay, and Otabek had assured him that he would be taking part in the Coupe du Printemps in addition to the World Championships.  It had eased the knot of tension he felt, afraid that he’d already managed to spoil the friendship he’d been hoping to form for five years.

After waking up on that first March morning, Otabek had sent the other boy a quick ' _happy birthday_ ' text before getting ready for practice. He went about his routine, knowing all too well that Yuri wouldn't respond for hours still, the time difference setting him several hours ahead. Instead, he dressed and ate breakfast, stowing his phone away in his bag before heading off to the rink. It wasn't until he checked his phone again a few hours later, finally settling down for a break, that he saw the picture.

He smiled when he noticed the text response first, a simple ' _thanks_!' followed by a challenge to try as hard as he could at Worlds in just a few more weeks, but he would still beat him. Otabek couldn't help but chuckle and shake his head at the boy's unflappable confidence, replying that they'd have to see; Otabek himself was feeling hopeful, his practice for his changed routine going quite well.  He even had a surprise he was quite proud of—he’d been practicing the quad salchow for his free skate.

After sending off the response to Yuri, he switched to his Instagram.  It had always been a habit of his, hanging on since his days training with Leo.  Even if he didn’t post much himself on any of his social media accounts, he frequented all the different sites and apps and followed his fellow competitors.  He flicked through the feed on his phone, glancing half-heartedly at the photos while he ate a granola bar.  He took a sip from his water bottle, then nearly choked.

He slammed his water down on the bench, clutching his phone in both hands as he stared at the screen and the selfie that Yuri Plisetsky had posted on his account.

It was a relatively normal picture—nothing special that set it apart from any of his other photos he posted so frequently.  He was smirking at the camera, head tilted to the side and his hair falling into his face.  Even the caption wasn't extraordinary, something short in cyrillic about his birthday.

But the thing that made Otabek’s eyes widen was what Yuri was wearing in the picture.  His eyes flitted over every pixel, certain that he was somehow being deceived, not really seeing what he thought he was.  After several long seconds, however, he felt his cheeks heating up as reality settled in that _yes_ , _that was_ _definitely_ _his hoodie Yuri was wearing_.

He’d seen the younger boy wear it before, of course.  After all, that was how the jacket had ended up in Yuri’s possession.  He’d lent it to him to wear on the beach in Barcelona, he reminded himself once more.  But something about the circumstances seemed so different when he saw the Russian skater sitting beside him wearing the jacket; it was a quiet moment between just them, the hoodie given in a gesture of kindness because of the cold air.

This was entirely different. Here Yuri was showing the world—or, at least, anyone who wanted to see—that he was wearing a jacket that—whether the viewers knew it or not—belonged to the Hero of Kazakhstan, despite the fact that he was roughly 3,500 kilometers away from him. It made something tighten in Otabek's chest that Yuri didn't just have the jacket, but he was _wearing_ it.

Otabek tried to reason that this could very well be the first time Yuri wore the jacket; he tried to convince himself that it didn't have to mean anything at all. Friends borrowed clothes from each other, didn't they? Yet something about it still felt strangely and insistently monumental.

He swallowed thickly and double-tapped the picture, making a heart appear to signify that he'd liked it. He hesitated a second, debating guiltily for just a brief moment before he took a screenshot of the picture. The only consolation was that it wasn't Snapchat and Yuri wouldn't get a notification about what he'd just done. 

He ran a hand through his hair, letting his fingertips run up and down over the buzzed part in the back, reveling in the prickly feeling of it. He let his palm rest at the nape of his neck.

He briefly wondered what he was doing—was this tiny hint of a lingering crush really something he was willing to give in to? He told himself it couldn't ever be more than that, that being Yuri's friend was far too important.

Otabek shook his head, trying to rid it of those intrusive thoughts. He fully accepted that what he felt for Yuri was less than platonic, something that teetered on the edge and threatened to hurtle right into feeling  _so much more_. He always did his best to be completely honest with himself, after all.

But on the other hand, he knew he was being less than honest with Yuri.

He glanced up at the top of his screen, eyes falling on the time and sighing. His break was over and he needed to get back to the ice. He had a quad salchow to practice. 


	2. I don't know how to say this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I stated in the last chapter: a few injuries, events, and occurrences that appear in this story are based off of reading about various pro skaters, including those that these characters are based off of. I don't know the ins and outs of skating, but I tried to research and then used things how I saw fit. This is especially applicable for this chapter—the injury mentioned and the results of it are based off of what I read. I apologize if I got something horribly wrong!
> 
> Tried to get this update out quickly. I'll do my best to complete the final part as soon as I can. Thank you everyone who has read and commented! I feel so welcomed by the fandom and I love it. Thank you!
> 
> Also, come find me on tumblr @ imatrisarahtops!
> 
> * * *
> 
> _"I wanna ruin our friendship;_
> 
> _We should be lovers instead._
> 
> _I don't know how to say this,_
> 
> _'Cause you're really my dearest friend..."_
> 
> "Jenny" by the Studio Killers

The injury was, for Yuri, devastating.

It wasn't devastating in the career-ending sense of the word, or even devastating in the way that leaves permanent damage or blemishes the skin with a lasting scar or requires surgery to heal. It wasn't terribly serious, in the end. His hip and lower back were aggravated, but he wasn't immobilized. He was tender and sore and badly bruised, pain blossoming whenever he moved the wrong way—sometimes, whenever he moved at all—but he'd seen skaters with worse injuries, injuries that meant they would never skate again. He knew that, all things considered, he was practically lucky. 

No, what made the injury so terrible was the timing of it all, just between his second Grand Prix Final and the Russian Championships. It could have been any other time, before any other competition and he wouldn't have been at such a complete loss. 

He wasn't stupid. He knew that he had to withdraw; trying to skate with his current injuries could aggravate them further and take him out of skating for much longer. But missing the Russian Championships meant he wouldn't be able to participate in the following Grand Prix series. How he did in that competition determined his placement in the Grand Prix—to be unable to take part meant that he wasn't just out of skating for this one competition, but the entire Grand Prix series the following season.

He knew he had every right to be angry. He knew that out of all the times he had thrown tantrums, this would be a time when it was completely understandable and warranted. But when he was hit with the reality of it, he couldn't bring himself to feel angry. Instead, he felt despair. 

He felt devastated.

He couldn't think. He couldn't imagine what the rest of his current season would be like. He was suddenly struggling to think of any span of time that was more than just a few days in the future. Everything seemed so uncertain now, as though hanging delicately by a microscopic thread that could give way at any moment. He was afraid to let himself think, because when he did, it was a barrage of questions he couldn’t answer—What did this mean for Europeans? For Worlds? What did this mean for his next season? For Pyeongchang? For his training?

What did this mean for him?

He became grateful for the company of Victor and Yuuri, a thought he might have been horrified of had they not been so understanding in just the way that he needed: no pity or worried glances, no discussion of the future and his career. They spoke of inane things in a way that used to drive Yuri crazy, but now he was just happy for the noise because it drowned out his thoughts. And then, it was as if they could sense when he needed the quiet, needed to focus on the silence until his mind was empty. 

They never pushed him to talk, never forced him to listen. They didn't make him do anything, just waited until he was ready to make the next move, whatever he decided it should be, whenever he decided. He felt like he lost so much control so quickly, but they did their best to return it to him in every small way possible. They let him grieve, let him cope, let him try to sort out everything in the way that he needed to. They understood on a level that he hadn't expected, and he truly appreciated it.

And at the same time, understanding also sparked in Yuri.

He understood how, during the early stages of their friendship, Otabek had found himself unable to speak to Yuri about his injury when he'd had to withdraw from Four Continents the previous year. 

Except it wasn't just understanding—somehow he felt _worse_  about it all.

When he had heard about Otabek's injury, he'd initially been angry. They were friends—and friends told each other everything; they confided in each other. So why didn't Otabek feel it necessary to say anything, especially when it involved dropping out of a competition? That had been the real reason he hadn't talked to Otabek at first, hadn't sought him out via text or call. It was only when Yuuri made a few off-handed comments about it, offering insight as to how Otabek must be feeling, that Yuri knew he was being selfish. So instead he waited patiently for Otabek to reach out to him and then he'd offered his concern. He didn't have much experience, but he figured that was the right thing to do as a friend, and sure enough the Kazakh skater seemed pleased by his response.

On the other hand, Otabek had texted Yuri what seemed like the moment he had found out about his own withdrawal from the Russian Championships. They were short and understanding messages, asking how he was doing—though whether he meant the injury or Yuri himself, he never specified.  He didn’t press for answers, didn’t ask any intrusive questions.  But still, Yuri ignored every text and every call. 

He knew he was being stupid.  He knew that Otabek would understand.  But still, the idea of talking about any of it seemed overwhelming.  It seemed impossible.  It seemed like it would all suddenly become so much more _real_.

Over the course of the Grand Prix series, Victor teased him that he was maturing—that not jumping to anger immediately at every turn was a good thing, a sign that he was growing up. Yuuri now openly considered him a friend, and told him as much directly; he didn't just view him as a worthy opponent or a fellow competitor, but by some miracle he was someone who enjoyed his company and all that it entailed. Mila commented fondly on several occasions that she was watching someone who was essentially her little brother grow up—no matter how many times Yuri snapped that she was only a couple years older than he was and hardly the mature adult she made herself out to be.

Even Yakov and Lilia had both praised him for how his determination on the ice transformed from exuding over-confidence to something more beautifully passionate, as though he was truly growing into the skater—and person—he could be. 

It seemed that his rinkmates and his coaches agreed that he was changing and that that change was both positive and welcome. He wasn't sure whether or not it was true; he felt the same, after all, not having the benefit of being able to view himself in a slightly more removed capacity. But he supposed that it was definitely possible.

But as he sulked on the couch in Victor and Yuuri’s apartment yet again, having lost count of how many consecutive days he’d done the same thing, he had to disagree.  He was still the same moody teenager, ignoring his problems and feelings instead of facing them.

Even just a month ago, he’d been worried that he would ruin his friendship with Otabek by accidentally letting something slip, mistakenly saying or doing something that would let on to his less-than-platonic feelings.  Now, he felt completely certain that he was ruining it all by refusing to speak to him at all for what he knew were irrational, childish reasons.

Which was why when Yuuri held out a parcel, with marks indicating it had been shipped internationally, Yuri wasn’t only perplexed, he was shocked.

Yuri looked at him with a raised eyebrow.  “What the hell is this?” he snapped, though it sounded weak and subdued.

Yuuri shrugged.  “It’s for you,” he said, tapping on the front of the padded envelope where, sure enough, the label read his own name, followed by Victor and Yuuri’s address.

Both his eyebrows raised in curiosity, and he took the package from Yuuri, wincing a little as he sat up.   _The painkillers must be wearing off_ , he thought vaguely as he looked at the package.  He thought the handwriting seemed almost familiar, but couldn’t quite place it.  Most corresponding he did was virtually, after all.  There was no return label on the package, but with the knowing smile that Yuuri offered, he could only guess who’d sent it.

He didn’t want to hope, though.  He could still be jumping to conclusions…

After all, it hadn't been all that long before the messages had stopped. Not that Yuri could blame him—if anything, he was mildly impressed by Otabek's initial persistence. But the older skater was far from an idiot, and Yuri knew that even someone with Otabek's seemingly unwavering and infinite patience had their limits.  It seemed as though Yuri had finally pushed Otabek past his.

He tried to pretend that he didn't care. He was still unsure how successful he actually was in convincing himself of that. 

Yuri looked down at the package in his hands, all too aware that Yuuri was looking at him expectantly.  Though a part of him wanted to snap at the man to give him some peace, he found he didn’t have the energy.  Instead, he flipped the envelope over in his hands, pulling the tab to open it.

Inside, Yuri found a slim CD case.  He glanced over it, blinking at the green disc behind the clear plastic and setting the envelope aside.  The CD was labeled with a single word, written in black Sharpie in the same handwriting as the package’s address label: _Yura_.

_A mixtape_.  Someone had made him a _mixtape_.  And if there was any prior doubt in his mind as to who the package might be from, it was all immediately erased because he only knew _one person_ who would ever send him a mixtape.

Yuri could feel his heart beating painfully against his ribs as he clutched the CD case.  But before he could think too much on the gift, he realized that Yuuri was picking up the discarded envelope and pulling something else from its depths: a folded piece of paper.  He held it out to Yuri.

Immediately Yuri snatched it from him, opening it to read what was written.

He swallowed thickly, feeling his cheeks heat up. He was really an _idiot_. 

He swiftly folded the papers once more, transferring them to the same hand as the CD so he could push himself up off of the couch.  He didn’t look at Yuuri as he brushed past him, stalking over to the door leading to the balcony.  He wrenched it open, letting the cold air hit him.  He didn’t turn back for his jacket, instead stepping onto the concrete and letting the door fall shut behind him.  He settled his forearms against the railing, leaning forward as he glanced out at the city stretching out before him.  Then, he shifted his attention back to his hands.

He carefully unfolded the paper again.  Inside there were two tickets—one for a plane to Almaty, and another for the Winter Universiade.  And on the paper, again in the same untidy scrawl:

_Just in case._  
_—B_

Yuri took a deep breath in, and made up his mind.

He fished his phone out of his pocket, searching for the contact.  He hesitated for only a moment before he tapped the screen, then put the phone to his ear and waited.

After a moment, the ringing stopped and he heard the sound of rustling on the other end as the phone was jostled a bit.

“ _Hello_?”

There was a distant part of Yuri that registered the uncertainty in the greeting, and he felt guilt twisting in his stomach.   _Had it really been that long since they spoke?_

He tried to shake off the feeling.

“Beka,” Yuri said in response, taking in a deep breath and looking down at the papers in his hand once more.  “I’m in.”

* * *

Otabek shifted uncomfortably in one of the metal chairs that sat in cramped rows.  He stretched his arm slightly, shaking the cuff of his coat back to reveal his watch, the time telling him just how late Yuri's flight was now.  He sighed, burrowing his hands deep into his pockets.

He debated getting up to stretch his legs, considered going for a bit of a walk in the airport, but he wanted to be certain he'd be there the moment Yuri got off the plane.  He didn't want to risk the possibility that he'd miss him for even a second, so instead, he waited. 

Otabek pulled his phone out, glancing down at the screen and the text notification there. It was a message from Katsuki Yuuri, asking if Yuri's flight had arrived. He tapped out a quick response telling him it hadn't yet, and almost immediately the Japanese skater sent back a reply once more.  Otabek raised his eyebrows. He knew that it was quite early in St. Petersburg, even for a fellow athlete; he couldn't help but wonder if Yuuri and Victor had simply decided to stay awake since dropping Yuri off for the five-and-a-half hour flight, waiting to hear when he arrived safely.  Not that he could blame them, if that was the case—he'd woken up far earlier than necessary, the jumble of nerves and excitement inside of him preventing him from sleeping properly when he knew that Yuri would soon be in Almaty.

He texted Yuuri again about the delayed flight, informing him that it was expected to land any minute, promising to tell him when it did.  There was something about the almost-parental concern of the two older skaters that made Otabek give a small smile.  He was glad Yuri had them.

It had been strange at first, he had to admit, when he and Yuuri had started to text at the beginning of the year.  Otabek had received the message just after the Russian Championships, just a brief text declaring who he was and that he'd gotten the phone number from Phichit (though how Phichit had procured his phone number, Otabek didn't know).  After greeting him in return was when Yuuri began to ask him something about Yuri, and Otabek had to shamefully admit that the Russian skater wouldn't answer any of his calls or messages.

In the end, though, it had worked out. He had mentioned the Winter Universiade to Yuuri, had told him that he had wanted to invite Yuri to come and see his hometown and watch the competition, but felt like it would be fruitless when he was so intent on ignoring him.  But Yuuri had felt otherwise.

_[_ **_Katsuki_ ** _] A different approach, then!_  
_[_ **_Katsuki_ ** _] He’s been practically staying with Victor and me.  Go ahead and get the tickets and send them here._  
_[_ **_Katsuki_ ** _] He won’t ignore them.  I know he won’t._

He gave into Yuuri’s convincing positivity.  He had considered his options: he could either purchase and mail the tickets to the address Yuuri gave him, or he could sit back and wait and hope that Yuri hadn’t completely given up on him—on _them._ In the end, it wasn’t a choice.

Yuuri had kept him posted—he’d told Otabek once the package arrived.  And even after the short and somewhat awkward phone call with Yuri, mildly strained from lack of conversation over several weeks, Yuuri had continued to fill Otabek in as the younger skater readied himself for the trip to Almaty even if Yuri himself didn’t.

Which led to Otabek's current position, sitting on an uncomfortable metal bench as he waited for the plane to land.

Then, the announcement broke through the muddled chatter of others in the airport.  Instantly, Otabek was on his feet, despite knowing that it’d still take time for everyone to deplane. He waited a few more moments as the gate was readied, then swiftly tapped out another message to Yuuri, informing him that they would certainly unboard any moment.

_[_ **_Katsuki_ ** _] Great!_  
_[_ **_Katsuki_ ** _] Let us know when you're both home safe._  
_[_ **_Katsuki_ ** _] And good luck!_

Otabek glanced at the consecutive messages. Something told him that the last text had little to do with the upcoming competition. He felt his chest tighten slightly, looking away from his phone once more and turning his attention now to the passengers as they filed slowly out of the gate.

It was only a few moments before Otabek caught sight of the familiar figure, his jacket hood covering his blond hair, head bent low as he scowled at his phone. Otabek wondered if he was similarly responding to a barrage of texts from his rinkmates in St. Petersburg. The corners of his mouth twitched in a tiny smile as he looked back to his phone and sent his own message to Yuri.

He watched Yuri's head instantly jerk up, scanning the crowd until their eyes met. The sight of Yuri’s face at that moment, lit up with a rare smile that was so wide it crinkled his eyes, was enough to erase any worry that some lingering awkwardness might be clinging on during the visit. Otabek knew from the moment he saw Yuri's expression that he wanted that image burned into his brain for the rest of eternity.

He found himself instinctually bracing himself for impact, but there was no running tackle to greet him as there had been during his visit to Russia over the summer. And it was in that moment that reality began to settle in, and Otabek noticed that though there was no limp or obvious display of pain, Yuri's gait was still all wrong, slow and carefully measured with each step.

When Yuri finally reached him, there was no verbal greeting; instead, Otabek immediately found his arms full of the other skater as he squeezed him in a tight hug. He didn't need to think twice about returning the gesture. It might not have been all that long since the Grand Prix Final, but the lack of talking made it felt like an eternity.

The moment that Yuri pulled back the slightest amount, Otabek seamlessly took his backpack from him, slinging it over his shoulder instead.

"Hey—!" Yuri snapped indignantly.

Otabek merely quirked a brow in response, as though challenging him to argue. Yuri scowled petulantly at him, but didn't object. Instead, to Otabek's surprise, he actually muttered a small "thanks" under his breath.

The quiet that settled between them was companionable, occasionally punctuated with a few questions and respective responses; Otabek queried about the flight, Potya, and Yuri's rinkmates, while Yuri in turn asked about the upcoming competition and how Otabek's practice was going. Once they finally collected Yuri's suitcase, they made their way to Otabek's car, a comfortable silence spanning between them once more.

Music began to play the second that Otabek started the car. His chest tightened slightly and his eyes flickered over to his companion in the passenger seat; but if Yuri recognized the song, he didn't let on, his features completely neutral. Otabek took a deep breath in, then began to drive, trying to ignore the combined sensation of relief and vague disappointment. 

But two songs later, Yuri spoke up.

“This is _my_ mix,” he said, glancing at the deck, then to the other skater.  “The mix you made for me.”

Otabek was thankful he had the excuse of having to keep his eyes on the road so he didn’t need to look at Yuri, even though he felt as the blond stared at him in kind.  He knew that Yuri was expecting an explanation, more than just a simple affirmation of what was now obvious, that _yes_ , he was listening to the same CD that he had sent along with the ticket to Almaty.

He should have known Yuri would, in fact, recognize it. But instead of letting anything akin to embarrassment settle in, he felt pride—Yuri had listened to it, and done so enough to be familiar with it. He took a deep breath.

“It wasn’t just _for_ you, Yura,” he said, voice even.  “It’s _about_ you.”

“Huh?”  The noise from Yuri was startled and abrasive, even over the music.  But Otabek still didn’t face him, keeping his attention directed forward.  After a moment, Yuri shifted in his seat a little, turning to Otabek again.  “You think these songs describe me?” he asked instead.  “They’re so… _cool_.”

Otabek raised a questioning eyebrow. "There isn't a song out there that's cool enough to describe you."

" _Oh_."

Finally, Otabek glanced over to the other boy for a split second and saw the faint dusting of pink along his nose and cheeks. When he went back to looking out through the front window, it was with a small smile.

"You're kind of a sap," Yuri mumbled.

“You don’t like the CD?”

Yuri grunted slightly in response.  “I didn’t say _that_."

For just a moment, Otabek wanted Yuri to say something—to ask him. He wanted Yuri to question the meaning of each song, to ask about the intention. Otabek wanted him to point out the possibility that it wasn't the usual sentiment of friends, because he would have responded truthfully. He would have thrown all caution to the wind, would have told him without hesitance what he truly felt. He wanted to be reckless, to be bold, to be unafraid of the consequences and only focus on the potential of how they could be so much _more_. 

But just as quickly as the moment came, it passed, and Otabek was left feeling guilty. Yuri was his _best friend_ —and he was fairly confident that _that_ feeling was mutual. Even if he was somehow willing to risk it all for himself, he could never try to take that away from Yuri.

And it wasn't as though he was unhappy in any way. Just being Yuri's friend, being given that chance after they met again—it was more than enough.

For Otabek, that moment, with Yuri sitting by his side, was more than enough. 


	3. I will follow you until the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. Between killing my computer and recent medical issues, I just haven’t been able to finish and post. Thank you to everyone who stuck by this story and didn’t give up on it, and thank you for all the kudos and comments.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ imatrisarahtops.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _“Jenny take my hand_
> 
> _'Cause we are more than friends;_
> 
> _I will follow you until the end.”_
> 
> _"Jenny" by the Studio Killers_

"When are you taking me out on your bike?"

Otabek turned to Yuri with a frown. It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since Yuri had come to stay with him; already, Otabek wasn’t sure if it was the best or the worst thing to happen to him.

Of course, there had been plenty of times when the two skaters had stayed close _enough_ to each other. There had been several competitions and exhibitions during which they roomed in the same hotel, including the onsen in Hasetsu for Victor’s exhibition event. But those times were still distinctly different.

When they merely stayed in the same hotel, there was still a gap between them, a border that, even when they toed it, they refused to cross. The both of them would come and go, visiting each other’s room or joining each other to grab a bite to eat. But at the end of the night, when Yuri started to fall asleep, or Otabek found himself unable to suppress yawning, they parted ways.

In Otabek’s small apartment, it wasn’t the same. Once Yuri began nodding off, exhausted from the day of traveling, his pain medication adding to his drowsiness, Otabek’s retreat was a much shorter distance. He set Yuri up on the pull-out couch, giving him plenty of blankets and pillows before preparing himself for bed and closing his door. Even then, it didn’t feel all _that_ different.

But in the morning, when Otabek awoke and slowly made his way to his tiny kitchen in search of coffee, he was faced with reality. And that reality was in the form of Yuri, sprawled out across the sofa bed, tangled in blankets, hair a knotted mess. His heart stuttered at the sight and he rushed into the kitchen, if only out of anxious anticipation that Yuri would wake up and catch him staring.

He hastily went about his usual morning ritual, cooking a simple breakfast while the coffee brewed, despite the fact that he was suddenly very much awake even without the caffeine. He tried to push the image out of his mind, tried not to dwell on how peaceful Yuri had looked, or the way he desperately wanted to push the blond’s hair from his face and kiss his temple. After all, those were not thoughts friends were supposed to have.

Once the coffee was ready, Otabek poured some into his mug, mixing in a considerable helping of creamer. Just as he wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his skin and inhaling the scent of his drink, he heard a shuffling. He turned around to see Yuri padding into the room, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, the other covering his mouth as he yawned. He then raised both of his arms above his head to stretch, and Otabek couldn’t help but notice the strip of skin that was revealed as his shirt rose up a few inches. He swallowed.

Yuri smiled sleepily at him and closed the remaining distance. He plucked the cup from Otabek’s hands, taking in a deep breath. “Smells good,” he murmured, then took a sip of the coffee. He wrinkled his nose. “Too much creamer, though.” He then pressed the mug back into Otabek’s hands, fingers warm in a lingering touch.

By the time Otabek was able to process everything that had happened, Yuri was shuffling back out of the room, claiming the shower first.

It was when Yuri finally emerged again, showered and dressed for the day, that he posed the question. Otabek himself had been picking out his clothes from his drawer, waiting for Yuri to finish in the bathroom, when the blond came into his room and sat himself on his bed.

Otabek had expected Yuri to ask about going out on his bike, of course. Still, that didn’t make it any easier.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Yuri,” he said slowly with a sigh.

Yuri glared at him. “I’m not _broken_ ,” he snapped in response.

Otabek didn’t want to argue. Yuri was not, in fact, ‘broken’, as he had put it. However, he still wasn’t his best; he was still taking some medication for the pain, still walking in a way that spoke of the irritation in his hip. Otabek didn’t want to be the one to make any of that _worse_.

“Not today, then,” he said diplomatically.

“When?” Yuri demanded.

Otabek looked down at the shirt in his hands. He didn’t quite feel comfortable with the idea, but he knew that Yuri had a mind of his own. If Otabek didn’t take him out, he was fairly certain that the younger skater would take matters into his own hands, anyway. Knowing that was the case, he considered his options.

“After the competition,” he said at last, looking back to Yuri.

Yuri huffed out an annoyed breath, crossing his arms. “You promised you’d show me Almaty on the back of your bike.”

Otabek didn’t want to point out that was _before_ Yuri’s injury. Instead, he nodded. “And I will,” he said simply, calmly. “After the competition.”

“Fine,” Yuri sighed. Otabek heard his mattress creak as Yuri got off of his bed; but instead of leaving the room, he suddenly felt warmth pressed against his back. He turned his head slightly to see Yuri reaching around him, pulling out a different shirt from his drawer. “Wear this one,” he said, referring to the garment. “You look good in green."

But again, before Otabek could comprehend what had just happened, Yuri disappeared.

It continued that way, over the couple of days Yuri stayed in Almaty. It rattled Otabek, straining his head and heart in ways that he hadn't quite expected. While a part of him felt incomparably content with every small gesture or comment from Yuri, another part felt overwhelming anxiety. _Surely_ , he told himself, he was misinterpreting things? Or else seeing what wasn't really there?

The only positive to come from that line of thought was that he was so nervous about Yuri, any concerns over the competition had vanished.

“Well, Mr. Hero,” Yuri said later with a small smirk as Otabek met him again after his short program skate. “No one else stands a chance, do they?”

Otabek rolled his eyes as he sat himself beside his friend. “I’m one of thirty-six competitors, Yuri,” he said evenly. “There’s still quite a bit before we see where I place.”

“ _Please_ ,” Yuri scoffed. “The next highest score isn’t even _close_.”

“Besides,” Otabek continued, ignoring his comment. “You know all too well that the Free Skate can often be the deciding factor. Katsuki almost beat you in your senior debut because of it.”

Something in Yuri’s face shifted, his expression hardening for a moment; but just as quickly as the anger crossed his features, suddenly there was something else—a sort of sadness, something painfully wistful as he looked out at the ice. “Yeah,” he muttered.

Otabek shifted in his chair, turning so he was facing Yuri better. “Hey,” he said softly. “Your career isn’t over.”

Yuri looked down at his hands. “You can’t be certain of that,” he said.

“But I am,” Otabek told him firmly, his tone confident. “Yuri Plisetsky doesn’t give up.” He watched the blond skater grimace. “You’re strong, Yura; you’re a fighter. You won your senior debut at fifteen out of sheer force of will to keep Katsuki from retiring.

“Yuri, you’re one of the best. You were as a child, you were in the junior division, and you were when you began competing against skaters years older than you.” He hesitated for a moment, then placed a gentle hand on Yuri’s shoulder. “You still are.”

He watched as Yuri swallowed, eyes still downcast. “It’s out of my control, Beka,” he said. “I can’t just _force_ my body to heal. And even then, I can’t know that it’ll be the same.”

“You’ll be back and better than ever before you know it,” Otabek told him easily. He smiled slightly at him, giving his shoulder a squeeze and then dropping his hand to the armrest between them. “Unless you’re just afraid that I’ll beat you.”

Yuri whipped around, planting one hand on the back of his chair, and Otabek was pleased to see the competitive glint in his eyes. “Oh, don’t bet on it,” he said.

“Well, then I expect you to prove it,” Otabek teased with a shrug.

“I guess we’ll just have to see at Pyeongchang.”

Otabek hummed in response. “I look forward to it.”

Yuri turned in his chair again, moving his arm to rest beside Otabek’s. The Kazakh skater felt his breath catch slightly as Yuri’s fingers brushed, feather-light, against the side of his hand. He tried to peripherally glance over to the other boy, but Yuri’s attention was focused back on the ice, betraying no indication that he was even _aware_ of what he was doing.

But he _had_ to be. Right?

The uncertainty was killing him.

After the medal ceremony, Yuri got his wish. Otabek hardly had a chance to shower and change, shoving his gear in his locker to collect later. He knew that Yuri would be waiting, no doubt rather impatiently, outside for him. Who was Otabek to deny him? He zipped up his jacket and swiftly made his way to meet the other skater.

"Took you long enough," Yuri said the moment Otabek was within earshot. He was leaning against the motorcycle, hands burrowed deep in his jacket pockets.

“Let’s go, then,” Otabek replied as he made his way over to him. He handed Yuri his spare helmet and put his own on; they clambered onto the bike without another word.

The moment that the engine roared to life, Yuri snaked his arms around Otabek’s waist. He stiffened slightly at the gesture; this was new. In the past, Yuri had merely held onto the seat. But _this_ —Otabek could feel the warmth of Yuri’s chest pressed against his back, even through their winter layers.

He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of Yuri. The blond, however, was making it increasingly difficult.

Otabek lost track of how long they rode. The evening air was crisp and cool, which caused Yuri to cling onto him more tightly. Despite the way that it made his heart beat wildly, he wanted to savor the touch, prolonging their ride through Almaty. He knew it was selfish of him; but at the same time, he was all too aware that it would only be a couple of days before Yuri’s stay would end, and he’d return to St. Petersburg. He wanted to make every second last.

Finally they stopped in a secluded spot, atop a hill so that they could look down at the glittering lights of the city. Otabek watched Yuri as he stared out at his beloved hometown, a look of quiet wonder on his face.

“It’s gorgeous, Beka,” he said, glancing back at the other skater briefly as he slowly approached, until they stood shoulder to shoulder. “I don’t blame you for having such a love for your country and your city, for wanting to do them proud.” He turned more fully to Otabek, a smile on his face. “And you did.”

He couldn’t help but preen a little at the comment. He considered Yuri’s words. “I didn’t do so bad,” he said lightly, looking back at the other boy.

Yuri rolled his eyes at him. “Let me see it.”

Otabek didn’t have to ask for Yuri to clarify what he meant; instead, he simply unzipped his jacket just a few inches, pulling the ribbon out from his coat so his medal could sit atop it.

Yuri smiled at the award, something between a smirk and fondness. He reached out, taking it in his hands and tilting it slightly, letting it reflect the distant lights of the city.

“Gold for the Hero of Kazakstan,” he said softly, voice full of affection. He glanced up, meeting Otabek’s eyes. “And in your hometown, no less. Like I said, you did them proud.”

Otabek’s throat felt dry. From the moment Yuri had taken the medal in his hands, he’d been unable to tear his eyes away, staring at his face as though entranced. He continued to watch as Yuri took the medal, pushing it back against Otabek’s chest, pressing his palms flat against it. Otabek felt his heart pounding insistently against his ribcage, thankful for his thick winter layers which served as a barrier so Yuri might not feel it as well.

Yuri slowly raised his eyes to meet his again, the smile soft on his lips—but it was still something _more_ , this time holding a bit of a challenge.

With the same deliberate pace, Yuri began to draw his hands away. But before he made it more than a few centimeters, Otabek’s own hands shot out, grabbing Yuri’s wrists; his grip wasn’t tight, but it was enough for the blond to freeze and stare at Otabek with curiosity, lips slightly parted in his bemusement.

“Yura,” Otabek rasped. He swallowed tightly, hoping it would make his voice come out clearer. “Yuri.”

“Beka?” Yuri prompted in return.

This was it. This was the final breaking point. Otabek suddenly couldn’t bear it anymore. He needed to say something before he completely lost it. He took in a slow, deep breath in an effort to calm his heart, but it did little to steady his pulse. But by the perplexed look on Yuri’s face, it didn’t seem as though Otabek was betraying anything with his own expression.

“Are we… friends?”

Yuri tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brow and seeming more uncertain than before. “Of course,” he responded easily, despite the look on his face. “We’ve been friends since Barcelona.”

Otabek shook his head adamantly. “No,” he sighed. “No I meant…” He paused, looking down at his hands. He shifted them slightly so they weren’t wrapped around Yuri’s wrists, instead letting his fingers slide beneath the blond’s palms, thumbs slowly stroking over the back of his hands. Otabek couldn’t ignore the blush that was blooming on Yuri’s face, dusting his cheekbones in pink. “Are we _only_ friends? Or are we more, too?"

The expression on Yuri's face gave him pause; he suddenly felt the need to explain himself.

"The past few days," he continued. "I feel like I've been going crazy. The touches, the things you've been saying... I don't think you're doing them on accident. And I'm afraid I've just been misinterpreting everything, or imagining it. So please, Yura... what do you mean by it?"

Yuri licked his lips. Then, he shifted his glance to their hands. He twisted one of them, letting his palm rest over the back of Otabek's, grasping onto his fingers. He guided their hands to his cheek, so Otabek could suddenly feel the warmth of Yuri's face beneath his palm, his hand still gently pressed against his as though to ensure he wouldn't draw away.

"You're not misinterpreting or imagining anything," he breathed out, just a soft whisper that Otabek could hardly hear. "I want us to be more. And I thought, maybe, so did you."

Otabek reached up with his other hand, tucking a strand of Yuri’s windswept hair behind his ear. The movement made Yuri meet his eyes once more, just the tiniest hint of uncertainty behind his gaze. Otabek’s fingers ghosted against Yuri’s cheek, equally unsure.

Then, he leaned in.

He paused just a moment before their lips met, keeping them a hair’s breadth apart in a silent question. Even with Yuri admitting his feelings, he wanted that last bit of confirmation that what he was doing was okay. And Yuri seemed to understand that Otabek was asking for his approval, because he closed the remaining distance in affirmation.

It was soft and quick. Otabek pulled away for only a second before moving in to kiss the other boy again. He had every intention of keeping the kiss chaste, but Yuri had other ideas; his lips parted against his, and Otabek didn’t hesitate to mirror his movements. He cradled Yuri’s face in his hands as the kiss deepened, while Yuri’s arms found their way around Otabek’s shoulders.

 _This_ , he thought, _it would be easy to get used to this._

They pulled apart at last, and Otabek could see the slight smile on Yuri’s lips, the way the corners of his mouth quirked upward in the smallest amount. But it was there, and it was beautiful, and it made Otabek want to kiss him again.

“I guess I should take that as a ‘yes’,” he murmured.

“Yes, Yura,” Otabek responded with his own small smile, letting his hand push Yuri’s hair back again, weaving his fingers through it. “I’ve wanted it for as long as I can remember.”

“I would ask you why you never said anything,” Yuri sighed, “but I think it’s safe to say I completely understand.”

“I didn’t want to ruin everything we had.”

Yuri nodded quietly. “I know,” he said. “Neither did I.”

Otabek couldn’t stop himself from asking the question that was niggling at his mind. “Then what changed?”

Yuri grimaced slightly, glancing away from the other boy. “You invited me to Almaty,” he said. “Even though I was ignoring you, even though I was too wrapped up in myself.”

“I don’t blame you for that Yuri—“

“I _know_ you don’t,” he sighed, interrupting Otabek. “Because you’re _you_.”

Otabek frowned slightly, unsure if Yuri meant it as a strange sort of compliment; but, he reasoned, from the exasperated expression of fond admiration on his face, it must be. He decided against commenting, instead waiting for him to continue.

“When you did that… I thought that maybe my feelings weren’t so one-sided,” Yuri said, taking a deep breath, one side of his mouth lifting slightly in a half-smile. “I thought that maybe it would be worth the risk.”

Otabek closed the gap between them again, pressing their lips together in a kiss that Yuri eagerly returned. Something swelled inside of his chest to know that _this was okay now_ , that he could kiss Yuri whenever he liked (within reason) and not have to worry over the consequences. He couldn’t stop the smile that fought its way onto his lips, even as Yuri pulled away to look at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” he demanded. “Why are you smiling?”

Otabek quirked a brow in turn. “I can’t smile?”

“I didn’t say that,” Yuri said, rolling his eyes. “I asked _why_.”

Otabek hummed in response, letting his hands rest naturally at Yuri’s sides, gripping his waist. “Plenty of reasons,” he said. “The short answer would be you.”

Yuri blinked at him in response, the blush darkening his cheeks visibly, even in the dim evening light. “ _Oh_ ,” Yuri responded, and it didn’t escape his notice that the sharp-tongued skater was rendered speechless at his remark.

“You know,” Yuri admitted softly, “I worried at first that you were trying to let me down gently by ignoring everything I was doing. Though,” he continued with a small smirk, “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than the thought that you simply didn’t notice.”

“It wasn’t that,” Otabek objected. “I just couldn’t be sure it was on purpose.” The corners of his lips quirked up slightly. “But considering that you’re _still_ wearing my jacket...”

“So you did notice,” Yuri responded, grinning triumphantly, a bright smile that rivaled the ones he wore when on the podium.

“Of course I noticed. I noticed that picture you posted on your sixteenth birthday.” He flexed his fingers over the fabric. “You’ve had it since Barcelona.”

“You could have said something,” Yuri murmured, leaning into Otabek, burying his face in his shoulder.

Otabek shrugged a little in response, letting his hands press against Yuri’s back, pulling him closer still. “I consider myself pretty patient,” he said. “I’ve waited much longer than that.” Yuri hummed at that, and Otabek reveled in the warmth of his breath. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he whispered. “You are worth the wait, Yura.”

“You’re a sap,” Yuri muttered.

“I don’t hear you complaining.”

“And you won’t.”

Otabek smiled, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to Yuri’s hair. _Yes_ , he thought amidst other words such as ‘ _finally_ ’ and ‘ _perfect_ ’, clutching the other boy to his chest as he glanced over the city below; he could _definitely_ get used to this.


End file.
